Then Sir Amyas yielded.
"You shall have fifteen minutes, sir. No more," he cried harshly. "And I shall remain in the next room."
He made a perfunctory salute and strode out.
The Queen opened her eyes, waited for one tense instant till the door closed; then she slipped swiftly off the couch.
"The door!" she whispered.
The woman was across the room in an instant, on tip-toe, and drew the single slender bolt. The Queen made a sharp gesture; the woman fled back again on one side, and out through the further door, and the old man hobbled after her. It was as if every detail had been rehearsed. The door closed noiselessly.
Then the Queen rose up, as Robin, understanding, began to fumble with his breast. And, as he drew out the pyx, and placed it on the handkerchief (in reality a corporal), apparently so carelessly laid by the crucifix, Mary sank down in adoration of her Lord.
"Now, mon père," she whispered, still kneeling, but lifting her star-bright eyes. And the priest went across to the couch where the Queen had lain, and sat down on it.
"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti—" began Mary.